While standing in line at the local supermarket on Sunday morning, I watched with less than detached interest as some jackass was giving the poor check out girl a hard time over the Massachusetts $0.05 bottle deposit.  I was picking up only a few things to get through the day and was hoping to make it back home quickly to enjoy the sunshine and warm weather.  This fellow was denying me that opportunity, and was making something of a scene about it.

The young lady cashier was not a local.  The supermarket sponsors work visas for Eastern European kids looking for summer jobs here, and she was one of them.  It was or should have been obvious to anyone with even an ounce of brain, let alone humanity, that she clearly had nothing to do with the setting of bottle deposits.  Yet, this man was deficient in both brain and humanity.

He was not from around here, either, and claimed to be unaware of any bottle deposit obligation.  I suspected he might be one of those Connecticut snobs we’re used to dealing with on Cape Cod, or maybe worse – - someone from Jersey or Florida.  He worked up a pretty decent exercise about this thing, too, and was tearing into the poor lass something fierce.

A woman I presumed to be his wife was standing between us, and as his ire rose, so did her state of embarrassment.  You know those “smiles” you see on babies that originate from either a gas bubble or a pending bowel movement?  That was the look on this poor lady’s face, and I suspected it was not the first time she’d worn it. I hoped, at least,  it was either unease or a gas bubble.

The line behind me was getting longer, and the look of discomfort and confusion on the cashier’s face was becoming curiouser and curiouser with every word and drop of spittle coming out of this cretin’s mouth.  His wife was working overtime to get to her “happy place,” it seemed, as she was spastically looking to and fro for security.  Or, maybe a hand gun.   The unease around the place was palpable, feet were shuffling, and all commerce had come to a standstill.

Something had to be done to move this logjam along, and so I spoke.  “I don’t think this poor girl had anything to do with the bottle deposit, and can’t do anything about it,” came out of my mouth, and the assclown’s head turned sharply at me.

Now, I hate supercilious bastards, and I’m sure this guy had his official membership card to that club in his wallet.  “Well, I suppose so!”  with spittle came out of his mouth at that, and he announced to all in earshot he wasn’t going to pay any bottle deposit.  He left all his groceries and staples on the conveyer, turned and left.  His wife never looked up, or back, and followed behind.

I’m sure it isn’t the first time an American has made that kind of impression on the young lady at that cash register.  I wanted to say something reassuring to her, something to convince her we’re not all cut from that cloth.  She’ll likely return to Eastern Europe in September, though, thinking otherwise, and who can blame her?

It wasn’t the state of our economy that brought out that ugliness in him.  It had nothing to do with presidential politics.  It probably wasn’t flouridation, or a bad ice cube, or a bad clam.  Sometimes it’s no more complicated than this – - he’s just an ass, and how he can walk around with his head so far up there almost defies the laws of physics.

There’s a song by Bruce Cockburn I always favored, and it popped into my head as I was thinking about this incident on the way home.  The song, from a 1984 album,  is “If I Had a Rocket Launcher,” and there are times when nothing else will do.  Good thing they don’t sell them at the supermarket.

I’m telling you – - they’re everywhere.  It’s an epidemic of assclowns.